


A Place on Earth

by ManicMoose



Category: Black Mirror, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual John Watson, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, M/M, Nostalgia, San Junipero, Time Travel, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-08 04:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11073786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ManicMoose/pseuds/ManicMoose
Summary: In a seaside town in 1987, a shy young man and an outgoing party boy strike up a powerful bond that seems to defy the laws of space and time.The San Junipero AU that nobody asked for.





	A Place on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't yet watched San Junipero (E4/S3 of Black Mirror) this will obviously contain _heavy_ spoilers. For that reason, and also because it's fantastic, I strongly encourage you to abandon this fic right now and go watch it first. I like to think of it as a short film, and it’s unquestionably one of my favourites ever. It’s just. SO. GOOD. I was suddenly struck by realization of how easily I could imagine the story with John and Sherlock instead, and couldn't resist the urge to write this.
> 
> I made some changes to give it a bit of a Sherlockian/Brit twist, but that being said much of the dialogue, and obviously the entirety of the plot, are not my own- all credit is due to the original writers, who are amazing and deserve every cent of their monetary reward. This is essentially a worshipful tribute in their honour. 
> 
> There may be the odd seemingly OOC moment, depending on your point of view, but please keep in mind that Sherlock and John are _meant_ to be somewhat different people here than those we first encountered in _‘A Study in Pink’._ They’ve both lived completely different lives herein than in canon (Sherlock in particular, for reasons which will become become quite clear). It’s a bit of the ‘you are sculpted by your life experiences’ shtick, y’know- this is an AU after all! Lastly, I chose not to use the archive warnings to avoid spoilers, though if you're familiar with San Junipero, you'll know exactly what major archive warning applies. If you _aren't_ familiar with it, and aren’t willing to wade in sight-unseen, please jump to the endnotes for specifics.
> 
> Title taken from the episode's de facto theme song, Belinda Carlisle's 'Heaven Is a Place on Earth'. Hope y'all enjoy!

The night air is warm, carrying on it the salty tang of the sea breeze, and the upbeat strains of pop music blaring out from passing cars. A tall young man wanders down the covered street front alone, somewhat over-dressed for the weather in his long black coat, its collar turned up against his high cheekbones.

He walks hesitantly, pausing now and again to peer into various shop-windows with a slightly overwhelmed expression. Behind him, the strains of a man and woman arguing grow closer, and he turns curiously toward the noise.

“Could you please stop it?” The man requests tersely as he walks ahead of the woman at a brisk pace, clearly trying to evade her. He’s perhaps a year or two older than the young man himself, and slightly below average height; though sturdy-looking, as if there’s more compact muscle hidden beneath his t-shirt and leather jacket than one would expect of a man his size. His purposely tousled hair is dishwater blonde, and his face thoroughly British and unremarkable.

The young man standing on the pavement tilts his head in bewilderment. There’s something oddly… _compelling_ about the blonde, despite the fact there’s really nothing in particular about him that should draw the eye.

And _yet_ …

“ _John_ , come on,” the woman jogging along after him implores. “We've only got a couple of hours... let's use it!”

“I _am_ using it,” the blonde man retorts nonchalantly, without slowing his pace in the slightest. The woman continues following him, undeterred, and they disappear through the open doors of the club on the corner. Without any real thought as to _why_ , the young man follows them.

 

* * *

 

Inside, the club is loud and dimly-lit, bustling with young people laughing, nursing drinks and dancing along to the music blaring over the speakers. A large, garish neon sign dominates the wall behind the bar; the pink word ‘Bart's’ nestled between two bright palm trees. The young man meanders stiffly through the crowd, aloof eyes roving over every detail of information on offer.

Surrounded by a sea of gaudy nineteen-eighties fashion, his black overcoat is even more curiously conspicuous indoors than it had been outside. Men and women alike turn their heads as he drifts along, drawn by both his unusual attire and his beautifully sculpted face. He pays them no mind, ice blue eyes never lingering on any one person for more than a handful of seconds before moving on.He orders himself a tonic water to occupy his hands, and finally in a booth in a mirrored back corner of the bar he spots what he’s been hunting for.

“There you are,” he announces in a deep baritone as he plunks himself down next to the blonde man from outside. He lowers his voice significantly to ensure that only the man- _John_ \- will hear before he continues. “Whatever I say, _go along with it._ ”

“Sorry?” The man stares up at him in startled confusion.

“You’ve been trying to put her off all night,” the young man whispers back quickly, carefully keeping his face turned away from the approaching woman as he does. “Clearly without much success. So I’m helping you. When it seems the right moment, tell her that I have six months to live.”

The blonde just blinks back at him, in wordless bewilderment, before something over the young man’s shoulder catches his eye. Sure enough, the redhead who’d followed him in from the street has appeared through the crowd, and she flutters over to them the moment she spots John. The young man settles back into the booth with a smirk as John sighs heavily, momentarily casting his eyes heavenward in irritation.

“Okay Sarah, this is just not on- do I have to red light you?” He questions, spreading his palms out in supplication.

“Two hours, thirty-five,” Sarah informs him meaningfully with a coquettish smile. “There’s not much time left.” John sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Sarah…”

“Look,” she begins, sinking down into the free chair opposite the two men, “Last week we had the most _amazing_ -”

“Last week was last week,” John interrupts her decisively.

“Now,” the young man cuts in suddenly, “as I believe that John’s made it quite clear that he has no interest in a further dalliance with you, I need to speak with him. _Privately._ ” He stresses the last word, raising his brows significantly as he takes a sip from his glass.

“And just who are you exactly?” Sarah curls her lip at him in reply.

“He’s my friend,” John notifies her brusquely, “I haven’t seen him in a while, and he’s sick, Sarah. Like, ‘six months to live’ sick-”

“Five, actually,” the young man interjects, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in rueful smile. To his credit, John merely squints at him briefly over the correction before continuing.

“I just need to catch up with him, alright?”

“Oh! Okay.” Sarah flushes, shooting to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammers self-consciously in the young man’s direction as she turns to go.

“It’s fine,” he replies, raising the fingers not engaged in holding his glass in a casually dismissive wave.

“See you around?” She looks hesitantly back at John over her shoulder.

“Sure.”

As soon as she’s out of sight, the two collapse against each other in a fit of giggles.

“That was,” John gasps between giggles,”the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. Six months to live! Sorry, _five_.” He rolls his face toward the other man, his breath slowing as the laughter peters off. “Why’d you tell me six?”

“Five was a nice touch,” the young man inclines his head and gives a wry chuckle. “Made it seem more believable.”

“I’m John,” the blonde man holds his hand out with a grin. The young man takes it, smiling back somewhat shyly.

“Yes, I gathered as much,” he drawls, and John snorts in amusement. “Sherlock.”

 _“Sherlock?”_ John repeats questioningly. “That’s… unusual.”

“Old English surname; it means bright-haired,” Sherlock explains with a mild grimace. “My parents were scholars.”

“Ah,” John nods understandingly, then settles back, his shoulder pressing comfortably against Sherlock’s. “She’s not a bad bird- I feel like a bit of a arse. Met her at The Quagmire, so-”

“What’s The Quagmire?” Sherlock inquires curiously, and John turns to cock his head at him.

“If you don’t already know what The Quagmire is, you probably don’t _want_ to know,” He advises, then smoothly changes the subject. “So, how’d you know I was avoiding her?”

“I _observed_ ,” Sherlock sniffs superciliously, and runs a fingertip over the rim of his glass as he considers whether he should be a bit more honest. Probably. “Also, you walked by me outside and I heard you arguing.” Clearly not a disastrous choice, as John merely chuckles good-naturedly and rises to his feet.

“Can I get you another one?” He gestures at Sherlock’s now empty glass

“Oh, no, I -”

“Come on.” John grabs hold of Sherlock’s coat sleeve and gently tugs him in the direction of the bar. He waves down the bartender and holds up two fingers. “Gin and tonic times two!’

“Oh, no,” Sherlock tries to intervene, “mine was just a tonic.”

“Times two,” John insists firmly to the bartender, then leans on the bar and drags his eyes slowly up and down Sherlock’s form.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm _observing_ you,” John drawls with a cheeky wink. “So why the coat? I like it- you look very mysterious, what with those cheekbones, and the collar all turned up making you look cool. But do you need it?”

“Well, I’m not _cold_ ,” Sherlock allows. “I just…”

“Knew it!”

“I got it when I went away, to University. I suppose it’s a…” He hesitates, searching for the right words, “…comfort thing.”

“I figured it was some kind of a fashion statement.”

“Really?” Sherlock’s forehead wrinkles in bemusement.

“But then the rest of your outfit is _not_ ,” John adds, eyeing the aubergine dress shirt and neat wool trousers just visible beneath the coat. Sherlock follows his gaze, glancing down at himself with a distressed frown, and John hurries to reassure him. “Don't take that wrong! You look very sharp! It’s just, I mean, look around. People try so hard to look how they _think_ they should look. They probably saw it in some movie. But I like this,” he smooths a hand over Sherlock’s lapel. “You're authentically you.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock softly replies.

“Cheers,” John salutes him with his glass in reply, and Sherlock takes a sip of his own, coughing slightly with the unfamiliar taste of gin hits him. John frowns at the reaction.“You never tasted it before?”

‘No, I- I just haven't had it in a while,” Sherlock fibs, quickly taking another sip. “It's good.”

“So, do you live here?” John prompts him over the rim of his glass.

“No. Well- I, um -” Sherlock shakes his head spastically, fumbling for the right thing to say and John takes pity on him.

“Tourist?” He queries, and Sherlock wobbles his head. “We'll go with tourist. So you're new here?”

Finally, a question he can answer without overthinking.

“First night.” He nods, and John’s eyebrows fly upward.

“First night? Wow!” A song begins playing that everyone seems terribly enthused about, and John clutches at his forearm cheerfully. “Let’s dance to this!”

“With each other?” Sherlock blanches in shock.

“Uh-huh,” John nods, already dragging a stunned Sherlock in the direction of the dancefloor without waiting for an answer..

“Oh- oh, no,” Sherlock stammers uselessly, his traitorous feet moving to follow John regardless. “Dance floors aren't my thing.”

“Let's not limit ourselves,” John tosses back at him over his shoulder, giving Sherlock’s hand a friendly squeeze.

“No, I- I can't.”

“Yes, you can, come on.”

“No, I'll look like an idiot -“ Sherlock attempts to argue, but John disregards it, shimmying in an oddly charming manner in front of Sherlock, holding tightly to his hand all the while.

“Just follow my lead! Copy me.” John shouts to be heard over the music, beaming when Sherlock attempts to shuffle his shoulders in time with John. “You got it!”

John bops about to the rhythm in sync with everyone else around them, and Sherlock just watches, as his heart begins to try and claw its way up his throat. When John finally releases his hand to execute a turn, he seizes the opportunity and makes a break for it. It’s short work finding his way to the exit, and he bursts out into the alleyway, then sags back against the brick. It takes him a moment to realize that it’s raining, and he stares up at the sky, mesmerized. He’s in the midst of reaching out a shaky hand to feel the droplets against his skin when John appears in the doorway.

“Hey! Why did you run away?”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock offers plaintively, reluctantly lowering his hand back to his side. “I- I said I'm not much of a dancer.

“I’ll say,” John agrees. “Like a frightened horse on a frozen lake back there! I'm kidding,” he tilts his head, considering,”... _half_ kidding. Sorry I pushed you into it. Saturday nights, once a week. It's like no time. I get a bit impatient.”

“No, no, it's not... that. It's -” Sherlock takes a steadying breath. “Everyone was _looking_.”

“Looking?”

“You know,” Sherlock elaborates, waggling his head, “two men, dancing.”

John raises his brows again in surprise, then steps closer. “Okay, one, people are _way_ less uptight than they used to be. And two, this is a party town. No one's judging. Face it. If they were staring, it's because I’m fit.” He runs a hand jokingly down along his flat abdomen while grinning rakishly.

“You're an idiot,” Sherlock laughs, relaxing a bit and hopping up to sit on the bin behind them. “I've never been on a dance floor,” he admits.

“Never?” John gapes at him. “As in, the whole time you've been alive, never?”

“Never.”

“What are you, Plymouth Brethren? That's one sheltered existence you got there.”

“Yes, well. As far as my family's concerned, I can't do anything.” Sherlock posits with no small amount of bitterness.

“Well, no one knows about even half the shite I get up to,” John shares in turn, hopping up to perch next to him, sitting close enough that their shoulders and thighs brush together. ”With your folks, though, it's from a place of love, right? They worry.”

“They don't worry.” Sherlock laughs spitefully. “Just the _concept_ of me enjoying myself would mystify them.”

“What would you like to do?” John angles his face up to regard Sherlock. “That you've never done?”

“Oh…” Sherlock gazes back at him, noticing for the first time that John’s eyes aren’t the brown they appeared to be inside, but instead, a deep blue. “So many things,” he breathes.

“St. Juniperus is a party town. All up for grabs. Midnight's two hours away,” John informs him softly.

“That's not very long at all.”

“Why waste time sitting here?” John asks, slipping his hand over onto Sherlock’s thigh and slowly sliding it upward. For a moment, Sherlock closes his eyes, breathing shakily. Then he jerks away, jumping from the bin to stand and face John anxiously.

“I, um -”

“Listen Sherlock- It's fine.” John cuts him off.

“No, I mean -”

“Really, it's _all fine_.” John repeats, smiling reassuringly.

“No, I'm, uh- I'm engaged. I have a fiancé. She's called Molly.” Sherlock explains in a rush, and John frowns at him in bewilderment, casting an eye about as if Molly might pop out from behind one of the cars parked nearby at any moment.

“Annnd is Molly... here?”

“No, she's…”

“Elsewhere?” John ventures a guess.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Wanna go to bed with me?” John suggests, eyes heated as he gazes up at Sherlock. “We could be back at mine in like…” he trails off with a snap of his fingers.

“I never... did anything like that.” Sherlock declares bashfully.

“All the more reason,” John smiles back at him alluringly.

“Oh, you're lovely,” Sherlock professes, swaying infinitesimally toward John. For a brief, golden moment he considers it. “I can't.”

“Okay,” john shrugs acceptingly, sliding off the bin to stand.

“I just- I can't.”

“I get it.”

“I have to go.”

“In this?” John questions, squinting up into the rain.

“It's been a pleasure to meet you,” Sherlock announces, offering his hand to John rather formally.

“Likewise,” John chuckles gently, as he grasps Sherlock’s fingers in his own. As soon as they let go, Sherlock ducks past him and heads out into the street, mindless of the drizzle dampening his curls.

He needs to walk away from this temptation and forget all about it. Yes. He can do this. One step after another, he makes his way to the other side of the street, where he stops for a moment, taking long pulls of air through his nose.

_Shite._

He turns back to face the alleyway, ready to retrace his steps, but John is already gone.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Sherlock finds himself in front of his bathroom mirror, trying on various hideously garish, supposedly ‘fashionable’ outfits... and utterly _hating_ all of them. Everyone must have either been blind, or absolutely out of their _minds_ on cocaine in the nineteen-eighties, if _this_ is what was considered in vogue. Strange, it hadn’t seemed quite so bad at the time.

Mycroft would be positively in _stitches_ if only he could see Sherlock now.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, frowning at how ridiculous he looks in his latest ensemble. The oversized, broad-shouldered blazer hangs on his body awkwardly, making him look like nothing so much as a overdressed scarecrow. He shrugs out of it and throws it to the ground in frustration.

In the end, he settles on nearly the same outfit as last week; a simple, trim button-down- light blue this time- and tailored black trousers. As a finishing touch, he shrugs his black overcoat on over it, and gives himself a nod of courage in the glass before heading out the door.

 

* * *

 

Elsewhere in town, John pulls his Jeep into one of the alleyways just off the main strip, killing the engine and yanking the parking brake up before hopping out. He turns to find Sarah, standing near to the rear of the vehicle, as if having appeared from nowhere.

“Bloody hell Sarah -” He jerks with a start, then shakes his head and marches past her without further hesitation.

“Look, John,” she starts, trotting along beside him, “I know I’m coming across -”

“I’m red lighting you, alright?” He declares firmly. “Enough.”

“No, don’t do that!” She protests, grabbing his arm insistently, “just -”

“Then stop this,” John informs her curtly, yanking his arm from her grip.

“Can you hear me out? Please?” She pleads, pawing at the sleeve of his jean jacket. “Please.”

John comes to a stop, turning to face her. “How many men do you think there are in St. Juniperus?” he questions, “Hundreds? Thousands?’

“I don't care,” she shakes her head dismissively.

“I'm saying there's plenty of other blokes out there for you, Sarah.”

“The locals?” She replies with a disinterested huff. “They're like dead people!”

“A little lively for dead people.” John argues with lift of his brows as a boisterous group makes their way past them, chatting animatedly.

“Look,” Sarah starts up again, “ I don't want some kind of boring romance, okay?”

“Well, if you're looking for someone to shag, there's options,” John asserts. “Hang about at the Quagmire again.”

“It's not just sex!”

“It _was_ just sex.”

“No, we made a _connection_ ,” Sarah tries insisting.

“Sarah, it was _just sex,_ ” John softens his tone, reaching out to cup her cheek gently. ”We had fun. I'm sorry,” he presses a quick peck to her lips, then steps back and begins to walk away. “Enjoy the town, for Christ's sake!”

 

* * *

 

John leans on the bar at Bart's, nursing the dregs of his pint as he stares blankly down at it’s slightly sticky surface. A pretty young brunette sidles up beside him, leaning in on her elbow.

“Waiting for someone?” She fishes with a winsome smile. John looks up and runs an assessing glance over her form before he shrugs casually.

“Not really.”

“I’ll buy you a pint?” She offers, with a suggestive arch of her brow.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he accepts, just barely managing to keep the disinterest from his tone. Oblivious, she gestures for the bartender and slides onto the stool beside him.

 

* * *

 

The club is just as noisy and crowded as the last time, when Sherlock trudges inside. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, his eyes immediately combing over the throng for a familiar blonde head. He catches sight of him, perched at the bar next to a pretty brunette with a frizzy, abundantly teased perm, just as John asks her something and they move toward the dance floor.

He stands on the edges of the floor, beside a pillar, watching as the two begin swaying along with the crush of bodies around them. As John shimmies his hips and arms to the tune of the music, his eyes meet Sherlock’s briefly through a break in the crowd. When he returns his attention to his partner, swinging her body against his with a smile, Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath; surprised by the sudden sting of disappointment. In an effort to soothe the sting, he makes his way to the bar, and rebelliously orders himself a gin and tonic.

Not much later, he cradles it in his lap while he slumps morosely on a cushioned bench; directly across from John and his current companion, his eyes trained on them grimly. Every now and again, John locks eyes with him as he sips his drink, nodding along inattentively to whatever his admirer is chattering about. After the third time, Sherlock offers him a small smile, and John turns to inform his date of something before placing his drink on the table, and easing himself from the booth. He heads toward the toilet’s without a backward glance, and Sherlock immediately rises to follow him.

When he pushes the door open and steps inside, John is waiting for him, washing his hands at the sink as he carefully studies his own reflection in the mirror.

“I don't know how to do this,” Sherlock mumbles insecurely, removing his hands from his pockets. His fingers clench and unclench anxiously at his sides.

“Do what?” John gently taunts as he crosses his arms, turning to lean his hips back against the countertop. Sherlock takes a small steadying breath and steps closer, right into John’s personal space.

“Just… help me,” he begs. “Can you just... Just make this easy for me?”

John’s eyes soften, and he reaches up a hand to stroke Sherlock’s face tenderly.

“You wanna get in my car?” He murmurs, and Sherlock nods shakily against in palm.

 

* * *

 

“You haven’t been here long,” Sherlock announces sometime later. The wind ruffles his hair as he stares intently across the Jeep at John, while they fly down the darkened highway.

“Sorry?” John glances over as he switches gears.

“You haven’t been here long; in St. Juniperus,” Sherlock clarifies. “Only a few months. Three or four?”

“Uh, three,” John replies with a look of surprise. “Three months. Plan is long enough to enjoy myself.”

“Guess you’re a tourist, just like me,” Sherlock declares with a pleased smile.

“Yeah, guess I am,” John concedes agreeably. He watches the road for few minutes, then asks, “How did you know that?”

“The same way I know that you used to be a military man, and a doctor, and that someone in your family had a drinking problem.”

“What?” John gapes, “How’d you know that?”

“Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military- no matter how long it’s been, such strongly ingrained habits are hard to break. Your neatly trimmed nails and the way you washed your hands- paying close attention to your nail beds and between your fingers, and lathering up past your wrists almost unconsciously- says doctor. Could have been a nurse, but something about your manner suggests doctor,” Sherlock rattles off then waits, with bated breath. for a response. “Well,” he demands impatiently after a few moments of silence, when it’s grown apparent that no answer is immediately forthcoming, “was I right?”

“Yes,” John inclines his head in gobsmacked assent. “But… how can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?”

“Shot in the dark,” Sherlock confesses, “- good one though. You didn’t hesitate to buy me a drink, or to enjoy a few of your own, but you were careful not to drink enough to tip over into drunkenness, and you pulled a face whenever anyone who _had_ over-imbibed ventured past.”

“Wow.”

Sherlock bites his lip, waiting for John to pull the car over and tell him in no uncertain terms to get out.

“That was… amazing,” he pronounces, and Sherlock starts in surprise.

“Do you think so?”

“Well, of course it was,” John beams over at him. “It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s… not what people usually say,” Sherlock volunteers shyly.

“What do they usually say?”

”Piss off,” Sherlock admits succinctly. John peers at him out of the corner of his eye, then lets loose a peal of merry laughter. Sherlock’s surprised to feel an answering chuckle bubble up out of himself as well. They laugh together until the urge fades away gently on its own, and then they sit in content silence as the darkened landscape streaks by in a blur on either side of them.

A pleased smile takes up residence on Sherlock’s face, and stays there for the rest of the drive.

 

* * *

 

John’s place is a second-story flat in a row of smart townhouses just off the beach. They climb the stairs quietly, so as not to bother John’s downstairs neighbour _(“She looks about seventy if she’s a day, if you can believe it.”)_ and John unlocks the door, holding it open to usher Sherlock in.

“Here we are,” he announces, waving an arm about to present the sitting room. It’s warm and cozy- if slightly eccentric- and seems as though it might be more suited to Central London, rather than this balmy seaside town. Two arm chairs face one another in front of a Victorian-looking mantlepiece: one rather rather frumpy and old-fashioned, with it’s faded red floral pattern, and a striped woollen throw draped over it’s sloping back; the other sleek and modern, all chrome and leather and right angles. “You like it?”

“It's very nice,” Sherlock nods shyly as he wanders about, trailing his fingers over shelves and knickknacks.

“It reminded me of London somehow,” John divulges, and Sherlock hums in agreement. “So I moved right in.”

There's a framed photograph on the mantle of a young woman, and Sherlock picks it up to examine it closely. She’s slight and blonde, and bears a striking resemblance to John; impishly mugging for the camera beneath bunting that reads ‘Happy Birthday Rosie’.

“You miss your… sister?” He guesses, but John doesn’t answer. Instead, he takes the photograph from Sherlock hands and replaces it wordlessly, staring up into his eyes as he steps close and tilts his head upward to press their lips together. Sherlock brings his hands up to cup John’s face between his palms, and John does the same in turn as the kiss deepens.

“Bedroom,” John murmurs, tugging Sherlock backward and through the sliding glass doors into kitchen behind them. There’s a short hall on the other side of it, at the end of which is John’s bedroom. They crash through the door, their mouths remaining locked together the whole while, and tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs.

John presses Sherlock down against the mattress, nipping at his plush lower lip and Sherlock spreads his thighs apart instinctually, to make room for John to press closer.

“You have to show me,” he murmurs against John’s mouth, gasping as John’s hand begins working his trousers open.

“Okay,” John agrees with shaky nod, panting slightly before he captures Sherlock’s mouth again with his own, tangling their tongues together again. They strip each other’s clothes off frantically, wriggling and thrashing about until they’re skin to skin. Sherlock rolls them so that he’s on top, relinquishing John’s lips to smear hot kisses along John’s jawline and neck, slowly working his way down and over his chest. John sighs happily and settles back against the pillows, quite content to let Sherlock explore.

“I’ve always wanted to try this,” Sherlock admits when he finally reaches his goal, and takes John’s erection in hand. John favours him with an encouraging groan in response as he proceeds to run his tongue enthusiastically around the tip and down the shaft. When he slips it into his mouth, John tangles a hand in his curls; _guiding_ the slow descent and bob of Sherlock head, rather than pulling.

“Fuuuuck,” John groans, limbs twitching under the onslaught. “You’re... um... a natural,” he adds haltingly, gasping for breath when Sherlock gives a pleased hum around him. For a short while he lies there pliantly; trembling and moaning in response to Sherlock’s dedicated ministrations. “Wait-” he pants after several long minutes. “Sherlock, you’ve got to... um- stop, or I- ah!” He taps frantically at Sherlock’s shoulder, until he finally deigns to flick his pale verdigris eyes up at John questioningly over the slope of his belly. “ _Sherlock!_ I’m gonna...uh- uh-”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide in realization, and he pulls off with a smack of his lips, swiping a hand over his chin to wipe off the saliva. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were -”

“Trust me when I say you have _nothing_ to apologize for,” John cuts him off with a grin, pressing a palm firmly against his chest. “I just didn’t want this to end just yet.” He applies further pressure with his hand, until Sherlock gives in and sprawls backward onto the sheets. John clambers between Sherlock’s knees, running an appreciative hand up his torso. He lowers himself down over him, stealing a kiss before leaning in to nibble at the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw. “Do you want to…” he trails off, thrusting suggestively against Sherlock in lieu of putting his question into words.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, and he jerks his head up and down in a frantic little nod, tightening his legs around John’s hips, in case his enthusiasm isn’t quite clear enough. John chuckles and sits up on his heels, stretching across the bed to reach into the beside table. He retrieves a small bottle from the drawer and pours a generous amount of lubricant out onto his hand. Sherlock spreads his legs eagerly in welcome, and John smiles as he settles back between them.

“I’ll go slow.”

And he does. _Agonizingly_ slow.

By the time John’s draping his legs up over his arms and pushing slowly inside, Sherlock feels as though he’s been writhing and begging for _hours._ And it only gets better; John pressing reverent kisses all along the arch of his neck, and thrusting into him hard, and fast, and _just right._

When he finally comes, it’s like a revelation; his brain screeches to a halt, all excess sensory input switching off until all he can do is _feel._ It’s better than cocaine, than heroin- than anything he’s ever done before. If he had any lingering doubts left as to his… _inclinations_ , they are well and truly put to bed.

 

* * *

 

Afterward, John props open the balcony doors at the foot of the bed, and they lie together, listening to the sound of waves lapping the shore.

“You never slept with a man before?” John blurts suddenly in the darkness, turning his head toward Sherlock on the pillow. “That's not a critique-” he quickly elaborates, “I mean, it was brilliant!”

“No, never with a man,” Sherlock confesses with a small smile, then hesitates for instant before he adds, “never... _with anyone_.”

“Not anyone?” John raises a brow. “What, in town or…?”

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head, flopping onto his back as his face flushes in embarrassment. “No one, nowhere. I guess you… deflowered me.”

“I _deflowered_ you?” John rolls to his side with a disbelieving grin. “What is this,” he teases, “The Regency?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock barks back at him with a laugh.

“You've had relationships though.” John points out, but Sherlock shakes his head and gives a low, negative hum. John’s brow wrinkles in confusion.

“You’ve a fiancé,” he reminds Sherlock with a hint of amusement, as if perhaps he’s possibly forgotten the fact.

“That’s… it's complicated.”

“Apparently.”

“When did you know...” Sherlock asks, settling on his side and tucking an arm under his head, “that you liked men?”

“I like women too,” John’s quick to point out, and Sherlock gives a mild huff of irritation.

“Okay. But when did you know? Did you always know?”

“I was married to a woman,” John starts hesitantly. “A long time, I was married. But I always knew. I mean, I'd be attracted to other men. Co-workers, friends, some waiter that served me. I fancied them. _God_ , did I fancy them.” His gaze grows faraway and sorrowful as he continues. “Never acted on any of it. Never did anything.”

He quiets then- for long enough that Sherlock thinks him finished- until suddenly he continues. “I was in love with her. I really _was_ in love with her,” John explains, seemingly unaware of the moisture welling up in his eyes. “But _she_ chose not to stick around… So now it's me. And I'm passing through. And before I leave, I'll have a good time. I'm just going to have a good time.” A single tear rolls down his cheek to the tip of his nose, and Sherlock reaches out to brush it away gently with his thumb. With a sniff, John peers over his shoulder to check the clock on the bedside table.

“Time's nearly up,” he reports.

“Then let's lie here,” Sherlock suggests, lightly squeezing John’s hand in his own. John turns back to him, with soft eyes and a warm smile, and squeezes back.

 

* * *

 

It’s another week before Sherlock finds himself at Bart's again, hunting for John. After an hour has passed and his search yet remains fruitless, he leans over the bar to catch the bartender’s attention.

“Pardon me,” he yells, in an effort to be heard over the music, “but have you seen John?”

“What's that?” The bartender shouts back, leaning in close to better hear him.

“John,” he tries again, his mouth practically against the man’s ear.

“I haven't seen him all night,” the bartender shakes his head, though at least he seems to know precisely who Sherlock is asking about. “You tried The Quagmire?”

He shakes his head.

“What’s The Quagmire?”

 

* * *

 

The Quagmire, it just so happens, is an… _alternative_ club- for lack of a better word- on the farthest outskirts of town. It’s grotty and dark, housed in what appears to be a disused power station, and filled to the rafters with people in various states of undress; most of whom are sporting some kind of fetish accouterment or other. A litany of moans and cries, just barely detectable over the thumping bass of music, greet him when he steps inside.

As he wanders through the establishment, he tries his best to appear entirely blasé about it all, but for pity’s sake; there’s a literal _orgy_ taking place right at the top of the stairs. He ignores the various hands that reach out to caress his face and… _other_ body parts as he searches, never stopping long enough for any touch to linger, which thankfully seems to suffice.

There appears to be be something on offer for every conceivable fetish, kink or deviant interest. Which, well- he’ll admit it would all be terribly interesting to _observe_ if the participants didn’t seem so intent on his joining in. He’s just making his way toward the exit, quite convinced that he’ll have no luck finding John once again, when he bumps into a half-dressed, particularly unwashed looking woman.

“My apologies,” he offers automatically, but she grabs his arm to hold him in place.

“Hey, I know you from somewhere...” she muses, squinting blearily up at him, “oh- Bart's!” she frowns taking unhappy swallow from her drink. “ _John’s_ friend.”

He realizes suddenly that it’s Sarah; from the night that he met John.

“Do you know where to find him?” He asks, eyes lighting up hopefully.

“How would I know that?”

“You're his friend”

“ _Was_ a friend,” she corrects bitterly.

“Has he been here?”

“No,” she shakes her head, then looks him over consideringly, and her mouth twists into a sour smile. “You too, huh? _Well.”_ He casts his eyes away self-consciously and moves to head for the exit once again.

“Hey,” she calls after him, pity and disappointment warring in her eyes. “Try a different time. I’ve seen him in 80, in the 90s… 2002 one time. He's worth the shot, right?”

Sherlock nods his thanks awkwardly, then retreats.

 

* * *

 

The week after that he starts in 1980; it seems best to start with the options closest to the time of their original meeting and then gradually work his way upward. When he has no luck there, he moves on to the nineties the following week.

In concession to the change of eras, he switches up his wardrobe and appearance slightly. The wool trousers swapped out out for close-fitting dark denims, and his shirt for a more casual striped cotton number, the first two buttons undone. His hair he wears shorter; the better tamed curls giving him an oddly boyish appearance.

In 1995, when the usual search of Bart's turns up nothing, he makes the trek out to the familiar row of townhouses, but the lights in the upstairs flat of number 221 remain steadfastly off; no signs of life from within. The rest of that night he spends perched on John’s doorstep, listening to the sound of the waves round back, and staring up at the stars.

He finally finds him in 2002; laughing and stomping about with some girl on a ridiculous arcade game that claims to be some kind of dancing revolution. He looks charmingly unassuming with his adorably tousled hair, and simple brown suede jacket over a blue-checked button down. The bright grin on his face falls immediately when he turns and catches sight of Sherlock.

“Hi,” Sherlock offers quietly, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.

John merely stares back at him for a moment then turns to his gaming partner and loudly announces, “Men’s room,” before hopping off the platform and taking off through the crowd.

“John!” Sherlock follows closely on his heels, calling after him, and reaching out to pluck at his coat sleeve when he manages to get close enough. “John, wait!”

“Why are you here?” John stops and turns to face him, his expression shuttered and blank.

“I was looking for you,” Sherlock explains, though it seems rather obvious. “Where did you go?”

“I like a change of music,” John shrugs indifferently.

“This doesn’t exactly seem your era,” Sherlock muses aloud, surveying their surroundings dubiously. His eyes narrow when John’s gaze darts away guiltily. “You hid from me,” he accuses.

“One; I did not,” John counters obstinately. “Two, I owe you zero. And three…” he trails off momentarily before continuing adding indignantly, “...see point two!” With that, he pivots away in haste, making off in the direction of the toilets. Without further thought, Sherlock chases after him.

“It's not about who owes who,” he proclaims heatedly as he bursts into the men’s room. “It's about _manners_. You don't know who I am- you don't know what this means!”

“ _This_ means _fun_ ,” John asserts roundly, spinning away from the mirror to face Sherlock. “Or it should! And _this_ ,” he gestures between the two of them, shaking his head, “This is not _fun,_ okay? This is _not_ fun _.”_

“So you don't feel bad?” Sherlock’s voice cracks slightly as he fights against the sudden lump in his throat. “Perhaps you _should,_ ” he suggests wretchedly, “or at least feel _something._ ” And then he sharply turns and pushes through the door and back out into the club.

 

* * *

 

In the men’s room, John squeezes his eyes shut as Sherlock departs, turning back toward the mirror miserably. He opens his eyes and stares at his reflection for a moment, taking one long, deep breath before he lashes out and slams a fist into the mirror. As he lowers his hand back down to the countertop, he looks down in wonder at his unblemished knuckles, and by the time he raises his eyes again, the shattered mirror’s righted itself as well. After only an instant’s hesitation, he quickly takes off in the direction that Sherlock had gone.

He bursts out the doors of the club, looking up and down the street as he crosses it for any sign of the taller man. “Have you seen a man?” He beseeches a young couple, chatting amiably up against the side of a parked car in front of him. “Mid-20s, dark curly hair, poncy black overcoat?”

“Uh…” the girl visibly ponders his description as she trails her gaze upward to the roof of Bart’s behind him. John follows it and blanches, the sight of Sherlock standing up on the edge twisting a horrified knot in his stomach.

“ _Bloody hell.”_

 

* * *

 

The rattle of the fire escape draws Sherlock’s attention, and he casts a look over his shoulder to find John cautiously peering over at him, his face a mask of alarm.

“Hey,” John ventures tentatively from his perch at the top of the ladder. “Please tell me you got your pain slider set to zero.” Sherlock turns his eyes back down toward the street wordlessly, then gives the slightest nod.

“Yes, I do believe so.”

“Okay, listen -” John starts, stepping up onto the gravel of the roof, moving closer with carefully measured steps.

“How many of them are dead?” Sherlock interrupts him abruptly. “Or should I say full-timers? I estimate approximately eighty to eighty-five percent, though it’s somewhat difficult to tell from up here, and I’m still narrowing down some of the corroborating criteria. I haven’t quite been applying myself to it as such.”

“About that,” John confirms. He steps close, tilting his head upward to look directly into Sherlock’s eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not going to jump,” Sherlock reassures him, meeting his eyes with a small, amused smile.

“I know,” John replies softly, determinedly maintaining eye contact. “But I'm sorry regardless. For…In the time I've been here, I said I wouldn't do this- do feelings. You scared me. I don't want to _like_ anyone. So you've been completely bloody inconvenient…” he takes a deep, steadying breath, “It's that I don't know how long there is. And I can't... I wasn't prepared for you. For wanting something -”

Sherlock puts him out of his misery the best way he knows how; he presses his palms to either side of John’s face, leans in, and crushes their lips together.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, back at John’s flat, after having run each other ragged with bout after bout of frenzied lovemaking, Sherlock sits out on the balcony wrapped in nothing but a dressing gown, smoking a cigarette and staring off into the distance. The sea breeze ruffles his curls, and cools the still drying sweat on his skin. He doesn’t even turn to look when John ventures out in a matching robe to sit next to him, pressing close on the padded bench.

“I’d say those things will kill you,’ John breaks the silence, “but that wouldn’t exactly be the truth around here, would it?” Sherlock chuckles, then sighs, looking downward as he taps away the ash.

“Next week it is. I'm getting married,” he announces, apropos of nothing.

“Next week? To nice Molly?” John queries in surprise. The corners of his mouth twitch upward in a slightly skeptical smile. “Sure you're going through with that?”

“I have to,” Sherlock replies woodenly, and John’s eyebrows pull together in concern.

“You _have_ to?”

“Mhm,” Sherlock hums the affirmative. “She really is a lovely girl. I mean, my parent’s don't approve, but they can't stop us.” He stops to take a long drag of his cigarette before continuing. “I know she pities me,” he reveals, blowing out a long stream of smoke, “That pisses me off. Though that's hardly fair of me, considering that she's…” he trails off when his voice breaks slightly. “You said you don't know how much time there is,” he changes the subject abruptly, turning his head to regard John. “What exactly does that mean?

“They tell me three months. It's spread basically everywhere,” John explains matter-of-factly. “Though, they’d said three months about six months ago. So, who knows?” John reaches out to steal the cigarette from Sherlock’s fingers, lifting it to his lips to take a puff. “Doesn't even taste of anything,” he marvels, staring down at it as he breaths out.

“But you'll stay here,” Sherlock probes uneasily, “...after?

“No,” John shakes his head pointedly. “When I'm done, I am _done._ ”

“But that's mad!” Sherlock exclaims unintentionally before reigning himself in and trying again. “That is... What I meant to say was- _Why?_ ”

“Mary,” John states, as if that remotely answers Sherlock’s question whatsoever. “That's... My wife's name was Mary,” he elaborates, staring out across the beach at the water. “She died just two years ago. So we had the opportunity to stay, in St. Juniperus. Pass over. She didn't take it. Didn't _want_ to take it.”

“Why wouldn't anyone take it?” Sherlock wonders, baffled.

“She had her viewpoint,” John shrugs. “There were things she believed and things she didn't believe in, and this place was one of them. Wouldn't even visit; take the trial run.”

“Oh. I- I- didn't know if I wanted to try it but…Well, without this place, I never would've met someone like you.”

“Yeah, you could have,” John smiles, jostling Sherlock’s shoulder companionably with his own.

“No,” Sherlock shakes his head decisively. “I wouldn't.”

“We could have met outside all this.”

“No,” Sherlock stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray on the small end table. “If we really met, I mean- If we _really_ met, you wouldn't like me. _At all._ ”

“Try me.”

“Or you'd... You wouldn't want to spend _time_ with me,” Sherlock contends. “You'd come and then -”

“Try me,” John insists crossing his arms stubbornly.

“Why? _Why?_ What's the point?” Sherlock sputters definitely. “What? Where are you? Leeds?’

“London,” John smiles and nudges against Sherlock again pointedly.“So come on, I showed you mine. Where are you? You know I can just look it up.”

“Lewes,” Sherlock admits reluctantly, with a soft huff, “in Sussex.”

“Well, that's no distance at all!”

“I don't want you to, ” Sherlock reveals, with a tremor in his voice. “I- I don't want you to see me. I'm scared -”

“And I'm dying,” John interrupts and Sherlock looks to him wide-eyed. “Whatever you are can't scare me. Let me come visit. I want to say hi.”

 

* * *

 

The sun rises, warm and bright over London, and an elderly man paces with his cane along the kerb outside of Battersea Place Retirement Residence. A young nurse bustles out the door, hanging a small keycard on a lanyard over her neck.

“There you are Dr. Watson!” She greets the man with a bubbly smile as she trots over to join him at the kerb. “I just had to finish signing out one of the travel pods for us. Don’t you look sharp,” she comments warmly, taking in in his neat cardigan and button-down shirt. “It’s lovely to see you so excited! The trip shouldn’t take us more than an hour and half, and we’ve the pod until six o’clock, so that leaves us _loads_ of time for your visit.”

A silver car-like vehicle creeps up slowly alongside the kerb beside them, it’s doors sliding open to reveal it’s driverless interior. The nurse takes the man’s cane as he climbs in, gingerly easing himself into one of the passenger seats. She passes it back to him once he’s seated, and he smiles gratefully as she plunks herself down next to him.

“Are you alright, sir?” She checks cheerily as the doors slide shut and she swipes the keycard, then begins keying their destination in on the pod’s brightly lit screen.

“Fine, thanks,” he affirms with a crisp nod. As the pod rolls out onto the main road and picks up speed, he turns to stare out the window, his grip opening and closing as if unconsciously over the handle of his cane.

They arrive at the sleekly modern long-term care facility at the expected time, and a smartly-dressed young doctor is waiting to greet them just inside when they enter.

“You must be John,” the doctor smiles, as he approaches, politely holding out a hand in greeting.

“I guess I must,” the older man smiles affably, reaching out to clasp the offered hand in a firm handshake.

“He's waiting for you,” the doctor informs him with an answering grin, then gestures toward the hall on his left. “Just this way, please.”

They turn down the short hall, stopping to let the doctor place his palm against the panel next to one of its doors. The panel glows green and the door slides open with a beep. He waves them inside.

“Now, he won't be able to physically respond in any way. But he can hear you,” the doctor explains, and John nods his understanding as he steps into the white-panelled room. The doctor takes a step back into the doorway with a parting smile. “I'll give you some privacy.”

With the energy of a much younger man, John hands his cane off to his nurse, and immediately moves toward the figure lying prone on the single hospital bed against the wall. When he reaches the bedside, he stops to quietly take in the sight before him. A long, slim man with a riot of salt and pepper curls reclines against the pillows, icy blue eyes staring expressionlessly at the ceiling. A ventilator, plugged into the tracheostomy tube in the man’s neck works tirelessly beside the bed; the hiss and flow of air from the pump filling the silence in the room.

“Hello, you clot,” John whispers with a cheeky grin, reaching down to gently take one long-fingered hand in his own and stroke his thumb over the back of it. He bends down to smooth a hand over the unruly curls and presses a kiss to the placid forehead. “It's good to see you.”

 

* * *

 

Much later, John and his nurse are making their way back to the front entrance, when a voice calls out suddenly in the hall behind them.

“Oh, Hello!” They turn to find a mousy young woman, hair tied in a neat side braid and clad in one the facility’s distinctive understated uniforms. She stares hopefully at John. “Pardon me! Is it... John?”

“It is,” he acknowledges cautiously.

“I'm Molly!” She beams, gesturing at herself excitedly. “Molly Hooper?”

“You're Molly?” His face lights up in surprise as he beams back at her. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah!” She agrees, bobbing her head before she babbles on cheerily, “I think it's lovely that you’ve come down here in person before he passes over! Even his parents don't come visit anymore. His brother does; but well... Sherlock doesn’t appreciate that very much so...”

“He’s passing over?” John’s face scrunches up as his brows fly upward. “When?”

“Um…” she bites her lip anxiously, suddenly wide-eyed. “Maybe we should go get tea?”

“Yes,” John nods curtly, “lets.”

 

* * *

 

In the cafeteria, Molly carries the tray with two cardboard cups of tea while John seats himself at one of the small tables. She places the tray down and settle into the second chair across from him, passing one cup over to John before picking up the other for herself.

“So he… He didn't tell you?” She ventures hesitantly to start.

“No, he most certainly did not,” John grants with a terse nod of his head. “He said he was just visiting.”

“Um, sampling the trial version, more like,” she amends. “I've only known him the past three years... We talk- on the comm box. He told you how he ended up quadriplegic? And how long he's been that way?” She asks as she helps John to his seat, and he shakes his head. She places her tea down, and hesitates for only a moment. “One night, when he was eighteen and home on break from uni, he came out to his parents. They’re quite conservative; Thatcherites, you know. They told him they didn’t want a…,” she blushes crimson, “ _poofter_ for a son. That it wasn’t natural, and so on. They fought, and he… well, he’d gotten mixed up in drugs by then, at school...” She pauses, scrapes a fingernail over an invisible flaw on the tabletop sorrowfully. “He tried climbing out his bedroom window, high as a kite; missed the drainpipe entirely. He only fell about fifteen feet, but it was enough.”

“When he was... _Eighteen?_ ” John echoes, something in his chest squeezing painfully at the very thought.

“Yes,” Molly nods solemnly. “More than forty years ago now. It's been his whole lifetime, basically. So obviously the St. Juniperus system has been a big deal for him. The biggest deal! Of course now, until he passes over- goes permanent- he's on a five-hour weekly limit. I guess you're the same.”

“They ration it out,” John confirms with an eye-roll as he sips his tea. “They don't trust us with more.

“They say you go mad if you have too much,” she remarks nervously. “That you don't leave your seat. You disassociate body from mind.”

“Like that doesn't happen in every senior home already,” John scoffs. “The system's there for therapeutic reasons. Immersive nostalgia therapy. Plunge you into a world of memories. Helps with Alzheimer's- that's what they say at least.”

“Small mercies.”

“So about this marriage…” John ventures, and Molly takes a drink and smiles sheepishly.

“The Government has a triple lockdown on euthanasia cases. You need to have a sign-off from the doctor, the patient, and the family. It's to stop people passing over just because they _prefer_ St. Juniperus. Sherlock’s parents are still alive, and quite religious, so well… they won’t sign.”

“But a spouse can override them,” John infers, and she nods.

“Yes. It was… It was his brother, Mycroft’s, idea actually. He’s the original founder of St. Juniperus, y’know- the mastermind behind it all. He’s absolutely brilliant; could have run the country, probably, if he’d set his mind to it. But he chose to go into virtual reality development instead; probably horrified their parents. I think he did it… well, they can talk about nostalgia therapy and Alzheimer's all they like, but… I think the _real_ reason he invented it was because of Sherlock. _For_ Sherlock. It took him decades to perfect it- his whole career really- smoothing out all the kinks and glitches- oh, of course you know all about it! Silly me,” she laughs, and it’s a sweet sound; light and clear.

“Mycroft… _Holmes?_ Sherlock’s brother is _Mycroft Holmes?_ ” John goggles in amazement and Molly bobs her head in agreement.

“But, well, like I said, he didn’t want Sherlock going in until it was, you know, _perfect._ That drove Sherlock absolutely spare. But now it finally is! Mycroft’d get him in there tomorrow, if he could. But… well, the rules are rules. And Mycroft isn't the British Government after all. Anyways, he said if he couldn’t get their parents to agree to it, well, they couldn’t stop Sherlock getting married.“ She twirls the end of her braid around her finger thoughtfully. “We’ve a vicar coming tomorrow morning, and then he's scheduled to pass tomorrow afternoon.”

"Scheduled to pass…” John chuckles and shakes his head. “Let's just call it dying.”

“If you can call it dying.”

“Uploaded to the cloud? sounds like heaven.”

“I suppose,” she titters.

“So, are you going to wear a dress?” He asks her cheekily, and she giggles again, shaking her head ruefully.

“The ceremony's on my coffee break. I’ve never married so, I just thought, you know; what's the harm? He’s a bit abrasive sometimes... but he’s got a good heart and _such_ an incredible mind...he doesn’t deserve to be stuck like that if there’s another option.”

“You're a good woman.”

“It's the least I could do, right?” She shrugs simply.

“Think you could... hook us up to the system now? Just for a little while, before he passes?”

“You can still see him afterwards,” Molly frowns in confusion. “I mean, then he's got no limit. He's full-time, permanent San Juniperan.”

“I know,” John allows, “but can you?”

“I’m not sure I can-”

“I’m sure that something could be arranged,” a posh voice cuts in suddenly from behind John. A tall, white-haired man in three-piece suit, with an umbrella hooked over his arm appears as if from nowhere, and pulls a third chair up to their table.

“Oh! Hello Mycroft!” Molly beams amiably. “This is John Watson, Sherlock’s friend.”

“Yes,” the man- _Mycroft,_ apparently- peers at John in with undisguised fascination. “How curious.”

“Curious? Why’s that curious?” John scowls across the table at him. Mycroft lifts his eyebrows with a mild look of surprise.

“You’ve met him,” he expounds dryly. “How many friends do you imagine he has?”

John, embarrassingly, has nothing much to say in response to that.

“So, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft continues on blithely, unbothered by John’s lack of reply. “I’ve been informed that, for the past several weeks, my brother’s been traipsing about every available era looking for you. And now that he’s found you, here you are; visiting in person. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“Actually,” John leans forward hopefully across the table, cradling his tea between his hands, “Funny you should say that…”

 

* * *

 

“Alright. You have five minutes,” Molly peers at him nervously, holding up five fingers in an adorably mild attempt at authoritativeness. Leaning on his umbrella behind her, Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“Thank you,” John smiles at her softly, and ignores Mycroft entirely. He has a feeling that Sherlock would quite approve of that. He detaches a small white disc from the slim white remote in his hand, and affixes it to his temple. Beside him, Molly does the same for Sherlock, and once it’s ready, John presses the button on the remote to power the system on.

 

* * *

 

An instant later, Sherlock is blinking at the warm sun beating down on his face on the balcony of John’s flat. Curious. He’s never been here during daylight. It’s quiet warm, and… pleasant. The balcony doors open behind him suddenly, and John steps out of the flat to join Sherlock by the railing.

“Listen, I have to be quick,” he begins without preamble. “I spoke to Molly.”

“Oh,” Sherlock flushes, casting his eyes toward the waves, “I’d purposely indicated a time for you to visit when she wouldn’t be on shift to avoid that.”

“Oh, no, it was fine,” John assures him. “She’s a lovely girl.”

“Yes. She is.” Sherlock puzzles, not at all sure where John is going with this.

“Also… Mycroft was there,” John adds belatedly, and Sherlock wrinkles his nose with distaste.

“Mycroft? What did _he_ want?” Sherlock asks with a scowl. “He didn’t try to offer you money to spy on me, did he?”

“What? No!” John blinks back at him, startled. He gives his head quick shake and redirects the conversation. “You're passing over tomorrow?

_Oh._

“Yes,” Sherlock concedes sheepishly. “A few hours after the wedding… I suppose I’m technically honeymooning here forever. I'm sorry I didn't tell you.”

“I'm gonna say something absolutely barmy,” John takes both Sherlock’s hands in his own.

“Alright…” Sherlock tilts his head at him, and his eyes slowly widen as John sinks to one knee before him.

“Would you like to marry me instead? It’s just... Molly seems great, but why not someone you've connected with?” John proposes, a bit breathlessly. He beams up at Sherlock, who stares down at him in utter shock for a moment before laughing and dropping to his own knees as well. He clutches at John’s face kiss him exuberantly, nodding continuously all the while. "So," John pulls back from the kiss to laugh, “is that a yes then?” 

 

* * *

 

They're married as soon as the Vicar can arrive; Sherlock speaking his vows through the comm box, while Mycroft, Molly and John's nurse stand up as witnesses. As soon as the ceremony is complete, the doctor and facility administrator appear, and they sign all the paperwork. John clasps Sherlock's hand in his own while the machines shut off, watching as a single tear slowly trails out the corner of Sherlock’s eye, and down his cheek. He brushes it away gently before the doctor pronounces time of death, and then steps back finally as Molly carefully drapes the sheet up over Sherlock’s face.

John and his nurse make it back to Battersea Place before the travel pod is even due for return.

 

* * *

 

Despite everything, the rules- as Molly so aptly put it- are still the rules, and it’s not until Saturday night that John is allowed to log in to the system.

Sherlock sits in wait on the front step of 221, his coat left hanging on a hook just inside the foyer, he tilts his face up into the sunshine with a smile, listening to the screech of the gulls. He’s pulled out of his reverie when familiar jeep pulls up to the kerb, cans rattling noisily on strings in it’s wake, and horn blaring. John, dressed outrageously in a morning suit and top hat, leaps up from the driver’s seat to stand on the runner-board.

“Oi!” He shouts in mock anger, tossing his hat into the back of the jeep and propping one hand on his hip “You didn't dress up to see me?”

“Oh,“ Sherlock looks down at his usual plain shirt and trousers as if surprised to see them.

“Come on then,” John encourages with a grin, and suddenly, with little more than a thought, Sherlock finds himself in a matching suit and hat instead.

“Better?” He demands with a laugh, tossing his own top hat to join John’s in the backseat as he steps up alongside the jeep, and John whoops with delight, jumping to swoop him into an enthusiastic embrace. They kiss without reservation, right there on the pavement in the daylight, for all the world to see.

 

* * *

 

They drive out to the cliffs overlooking the town, climbing up onto the hood of the jeep to sit, pressed close together and watch the sun set.

“I love it here,” Sherlock declares with a quiet sigh, and John turns to regard him thoughtfully.

“You've been here before,” he observes, and it’s a statement, not a question.

“Mm,” Sherlock nods in acknowledgement. “Mycroft modelled it after the town in Normandy where we used to summer, with our Grand-maman. I told him once, when I was seven that I wished I could live there forever.” He pauses to snort in amusement. “Apparently, he took me very seriously indeed.”

John laughs at that, than quiets down and gives Sherlock a thoughtful sidelong glance. “Why didn’t you tell me,” he asks, “about Mycroft?”

“It never occurred to me, in all honesty. It wasn’t as though the connection had done me any favours. He was stubbornly persistent about keeping me out of here entirely until he was sure that it was without risk or flaw. Besides,” Sherlock wryly raises a brow. “I hardly had much of an opportunity, even if I’d thought to; my brother isn’t exactly a topic that I care to discuss mid-shag.”

“Fair enough,” John giggles good-naturedly, leaning close to nip playfully at Sherlock earlobe. “I have been keeping you rather occupied, haven’t I?” Sherlock chuckles low and deep, wrapping a long-fingered hand around John’s nape to redirect his mouth upward and bring their lips together for heated kiss.

“He used to tell me about it, you know- over the comm box- before he finally let me log in, the twat,” Sherlock reveals, a touch resentfully, when they finally pull apart and settle back companionably against the windscreen. “But… I _was_ able to help him resolve some issues he was having early on, with the code; so, at least it helped get me in here that much sooner.”

“Oh?” John raises his brows in surprise. “So you can… Is that what you would have like to have done then too? If... what happened… hadn’t?” John asks him, stroking over Sherlock's shoulder.

“God no,” Sherlock scoffs disdainfully, “how incredibly tedious.”

“What then?”

“Well, originally, I wanted to be a pirate,” Sherlock confides loftily, and John favours him with a belly-laugh. He joins in with a chuckle of his own, then chews his lip thoughtfully before continuing on more seriously. “But... I think I would have liked to have been a Consulting Detective.“

“A Consulting Detective? What does that mean? I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t have,” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, “I made it up just now. I would have advised the police when they were out of their depth. Which, from what I saw during my brief excursions into the underbelly of London, was always.”

“You’d have been good at that,” John acknowledges with a hum. “Suppose you still could do something like it, round here- I mean, most of the full-timers do _something_ to keep themselves occupied.”

“Mmm, though there’s hardly a wealth of good murders to solve when everyone is already dead,” he points out with a pout, nestling his face further into John’s shoulder. They lie together companionably like that for a short while, the lapping of waves and cry of gulls filling the silence. Finally Sherlock lifts his head, meeting John’s eyes solemnly. “Be with me.”

“I'm with you now,” John reminds him, carding fingers gently through Sherlock’s curls.

“That's not what I mean,” Sherlock shakes his head in frustration. “Pass over; when it's your time.”

“Sherlock...”

“Stay here with me,” he pleads.

“Can we just enjoy tonight?” John sighs wearily. “It's almost midnight.”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it, John. In ten minutes, you'll have left, and I have to wait a week just to see you again.”

“You know I'm just a visitor.”

“And after a couple of months, then what?”

“We're not discussing this,” John informs him sternly, avoiding the question entirely.

“Then you're gone. Just gone,” Sherlock answers for him agitatedly, sitting up an and burying his fingers in his hair in frustration. “You could have forever.”

“Forever?” John scoffs, “Who can even make sense of forever?”

“However long you want then. You can remove yourself like that- it's not a trap.”

“I'm going,” John moves to climb off the hood of the Jeep with a pinched expression. Sherlock beats him to it, sliding down and slipping between John’s knees to stop him from going.

“ _John_... It's real,” he gestures to the world around them at large. Then he take John's hands and brings them up to frame his own face, folding his own hands over them to keep them in place. “ _This_ is real... and _this_ ,” he adds, turning his left hand slightly to showcase the simple gold band encircling his third finger.

“Come on,” John huffs, looking away. “You know that was just a gesture.”

“You _married_ me,” Sherlock insists.

“To help you pass over,” John protests gruffly, determinedly continuing to avoid Sherlock’s eyes. ‘As a kindness.”

“It's not so kind to leave,” Sherlock snaps back, and then his expression crumples and he hurries to apologize. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I just... I have this chance. _We_ have this chance. And I just- I want to share it with you, John.”

“I told you that I made my choice Sherlock.”

“But _why?_ Because you feel bad, because your wife isn’t here? That was _her_ choice!”

“Don’t,” John warns, but Sherlock continues undeterred.

“ _She_ chose not to stay here,” he rages. “She _left_ you! She could have stayed, but she chose to leave you!”

“Sherlock, I’m warning you. You don’t know what you’re saying. Stop. _Now._ ”

“You should be _angry_ at her! Not whipping yourself with guilt!”

“Get off me-” John hisses, pushing Sherlock away.

“Why can’t you see it? What she did was selfish-”

“ _Forty-nine years!”_ John cuts Sherlock off with a roar. “I was with her for forty-nine years. You can’t _begin_ to imagine… You can’t know the bond, the commitment, the boredom, the yearning, the laughter, the love of it… The fucking love. You just _cannot_ know. Everything we sacrificed; the years I gave her, the years she gave me. Did you ever think to _ask_ Sherlock? Did it occur to you? Couldn’t you _deduce_ it?" He breathes heavily through his nose, face twisted in a scowl. "We had a daughter. Rosie. Always difficult, always beautiful. She died when she was thirty-nine, and Mary and I, we felt that heartbreak as _one_. Do you think that you're the only person who’s ever suffered, Sherlock? Go to hell.”

Sherlock gapes at him, wide-eyed and pale. “ _John._ I- I didn’t… I didn’t know,” he stutters haltingly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. You _see_ , but you don’t _observe_.” John scoffs coldly. “When she was dying, and they offered her this-” he waves his arm in a gesture encompassing their surroundings. “You know, when she was dying, Mary said to me when they offered her this, to pass over, pass through, spend eternity in this fucking graveyard you're so in love with, she said, ‘How can I? When she missed out, how can I?’ And so she went. And I wish I could believe she's with her now, that they're together, but I don't. I believe they're _nowhere_ \- just like you said. _Gone,_ ” he spits, his eyes hard as stone. “No, I pitied you, and that's the truth. I pitied you. Now you give me some sales pitch about how fucking peachy forever could be. I'm sorry. You want to spend forever somewhere nothing matters? End up like Sarah? Like all those desperate sods at The Quagmire trying anything to feel something? Go ahead. But I'm _out_. I'm gone.”

“John, I'm sorry,” Sherlock begs, grabbing desperately at the sleeve of John’s jacket as he stalks away, calling after him pleadingly. “John!”

John shakes him off, climbing into the driver’s seat of the Jeep and starting it up before he throws it into reverse. Sherlock stands, limp and dejected as he watches him drive away.

 

* * *

 

Over the next few weeks, John’s condition continues to deteriorate, and he stubbornly refuses to log in to St. Juniperus the whole while, despite his allotted blocks of time. The nurses exchange concerned glances over his head and behind his back with increasing worry, concerned about the sudden change in their usually playfully flirtatious, affable patient. He spends the vast majority of his days seated by a window with his oxygen tank, staring out over Battersea Park and the Thames, deep in thought, while he incessantly twists the ever-present gold wedding band on his left ring-finger.

“Well, alright then,” he speaks up suddenly one peaceful Friday evening, startling the young nurse, companionably perusing a magazine in the armchair across from him.

“Dr. Watson?” She responds quizzically to the non-sequitur.

“All things considered,” he informs her, no more clearly than before. ”I guess I'm ready.”

“For...what?” She inquires, drawing her eyebrows together in confusion; still at a complete loss. A bright smile slowly breaks over his face, sweeping away the grim cloud that’s hung over him for more than a fortnight.

“For the rest of it.”

 

* * *

 

John Hamish Watson passes over on Tuesday, March 29th; two months to the day after meeting Sherlock Holmes. All paperwork is appropriately completed and filed, and when he serenely takes his final breath, two of his long-standing nurses sniffling quietly at his side, the population counter of St. Juniperus ticks upward by one.

 

* * *

 

In a busy server bay at HLMS Systems, a small fleet of robotic arms work diligently, transferring cylindrical memory cells into permanent storage. The walls of the bay twinkle like the night sky, the lights of thousands upon thousands of cells flickering in the walls of their system housings. A distinguished older gentleman leans on an umbrella at the end of the corridor, overseeing the installation of a new consciousness into a panel of the casing labeled SAINT JUNIPERUS 1895. The newest cell, SJ 221B - 1023, plugs neatly into it’s place on the panel, the LEDs ringing it’s faceplate oscillating in a circuitous motion all the while.

“There you are, brother mine,” he murmurs quietly, brushing his fingers affectionately over the new cell’s closest neighbour; SJ 221B - 1908. “I trust the good doctor will keep a close eye on you. Though _do_ try to stay out of trouble until I’m able to visit.”

 

* * *

 

In another place altogether, a young man in a red convertible speeds down a winding seaside road, the wind whipping his dark curls into a riotous halo. He screeches to a halt outside a neat row of townhouses along the beach, laying on the horn mercilessly.

An instant later, a short blonde man sticks his head out the upstairs window with an thunderous expression. “For Christ sake’s Sherlock,” he hollers down, “how many times do I have to tell you that it’s completely unacceptable to disturb the entire neighbourhood, just because you’re too lazy to come up the stairs?”

“Bugger the neighbours, John!” Sherlock pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and grins upward delightedly. “A fourth tourist’s committed suicide! And this time they left a note! Quickly John!”

“I _beg_ your pardon!” Another, decidedly feminine, voice chimes in affrontedly from the window of the ground level flat.

“Not _you_ Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock shouts in reassurance, before adding impishly, “Besides which; I didn’t mean  _literally._  I’d quite prefer John not bugger anyone other than myself.”

“Well, _that_ hardly makes it any better, young man,” Mrs. Hudson calls back in exasperation. _“Honestly!”_

“But Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock crows with excitement, ”four _impossible_ suicides! Four of them!“

"Look at you all happy,” Mrs. Hudson scolds as she pushes up the window sash to lean out over her flower box. “It's not decent." Despite her words, there’s an undeniable air of fondness in her voice, and in the tilt of her mouth as she attempts to put on her best disapproving frown.

"Who cares about decent?” Sherlock happily dismisses the notion as he slips his sunglasses back down over his eyes. “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" She titters girlishly and shoos him playfully, turning away from the window and disappearing back into her flat, just as the front door swings open.

“If you honk for me _one_ more time, the only thing that is going to be _on_ anywhere is _you,_ ” John mulishly announces as he steps out onto the doorstep, clearly having made his way down whilst the two of them were bantering. He ambles down the front walk to the kerb, pulling on light jacket as he goes. “As in; _on_ the _sofa._ Because _that_ , Sherlock Holmes, is where you’ll be sleeping.”

“Yes, of course. Never again,” Sherlock lies, leaning over the driver's-side door to greet John with a kiss. “Mycroft’s sent word,” he explains as John goes round to the passenger side and climbs in, “he’s sending that analyst of his, Lestrade, to meet us.”

“Why do I sense this will end in another late night of running about in darkened alleyways?” John smiles indulgently as he pulls a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket and puts them on. “Goodnight Mrs. Hudson,” he calls out toward her still-open window, ”we'll try not to make a racket when we get in!”

“Before we go, you must promise me one thing,” Sherlock demands, and John raises a questioning brow. “You absolutely _cannot,_  under any circumstances,tell Mycroft I was excited to take the case.”

“I wouldn’t _dream_ of it, love.” John laughs, reaching out to rest his hand on Sherlock’s upper thigh.

And with that, Sherlock executes a sharp u-turn and they speed away; heading off into the sunset, toward the distant lights of town.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I went there. I had them drive away into the sunset. I saw my chance, and I took it. I have _no shame_.
> 
>  **Major Character Death** herein. As with Kelly and Yorkie in San Junipero, John and Sherlock do both ultimately die via euthanasia, in order for their consciousness' to be uploaded permanently into San Junipero. If this is something that you find triggering or you're not on board with, it would be best for you to proceed to the emergency exits at this juncture.
> 
> That warning over with, I'd just like to add my feelings-laden two cents about San Junipero. As a bisexual woman, Kelly’s (John in this fic!) character in particular was deeply meaningful to me. I mean- they made it explicitly clear that her sexuality wasn’t magically erased by way of her being in a monogamous relationship! Unheard of!!! Overall, San Junipero had the kind of LGBT+ representation that's still awfully rare in television: a bisexual woman of colour, an interracial relationship, a happy ending where no one died (well, okay, not quite- but it wasn't the depressing awful tv tropes kind of death at least) and ugh. I just want to watch it over and over again.


End file.
